Exodus

Look... I know that movies and real life are not the same. I know that when I come home from grocery shopping, I'm not going to be carrying a singular paper sack with fresh greens and an unwrapped baguette sticking out the top. I'm fairly certain that if my car gets into a minor accident with another car, neither vehicle will explode. My phone number doesn't start with "555," I rarely have an accompanying soundtrack, and if I decide to go to the bank to make a deposit, you can rest well assured that I'm probably not about to be involved in a hostage situation or bank robbery.

Despite knowing all that, when I decided to resign from my job recently, I thought it would be like how it is in the movies. When movie people quit or get fired, they clean off their desk and leave the office carrying a box, much like this one:

If only it were that simple.

Four days, four car loads, and a living room that currently looks like Woodstock: The Aftermath, but I'm finally out of there, ready to begin the next phase (which I'm either going to call The Great Adventure or the Glorious Unfolding... and hope that Mr. S.C. Chapman doesn't mind either way.)

I'm ready!

Sure, I've inhaled enough dust and dirt in the past week to give me an allergy attack of epic proportions. My eyes are watering, my head is throbbing, and my right nostril wants me to sneeze, while the left one doesn't seem interested. I'm tired and achy and cranky and dirty and I still have a ton of stuff to put away.

But it will get put away.

And these aches and allergies will pass.

And the story has only begun.